


where soul meets body

by waterlines



Category: Alexander (2004), Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:11:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterlines/pseuds/waterlines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had known nothing of empires or wars, not really, but he knew love, he must have, because he doesn’t remember not feeling it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where soul meets body

**Author's Note:**

> the title is stolen from soul meets body by death cab for cutie. this is something i started randomly type with my phone like two years ago after watching the alexander movie and i honestly don’t know how it evolved into this. all i can say is that i'm really into melodrama and i've probably overlooked about a million historical facts and i apologize.

 

_i._

He used to think that it didn’t matter. That it was completely indifferent if there was more to him than just a prince, just an emperor. It was all made easy for him right from the beginning, to bury his desires under his obligations. The glory of his name had always hidden everything that was imperfect about him, all the lowly faults in his character. It didn’t take any effort, to forget himself in the middle of it all and do his best to make everyone else forget too.

It did matter though, he finds himself thinking much later. He’s still there, almost like they want him to be, the golden god that he always was in the minds of his people. There’s no mercy in his eyes, no backing down and he is as determined as ever but the thing is, his chest is hollow with pain.

If the gods had had any mercy on him or his empire, they would have let him forget what it was to feel anything, and above all, let him forget the one who had still been able to see what was dying under the armor of Alexander the Great and known how to keep it alive.

It goes on like it does because gods never have mercy but in death.

 

 

_ii._

He doesn’t know when it began, or even if there ever was a beginning because there is no end. It was somewhere between seven and nine when he first met him, somewhere between life and death when he fell in love and the fall is endless, because there is nothing before or after.

When they were children, running and wrestling their way through the fields of gold in Pella, even then he must have known. He had known nothing of empires or wars, not really, but he knew love, he must have, because he doesn’t remember not feeling it.

Hephaestion had been his and this time the gods had really wronged him. He would have been furious if they were to take his land or gold or soldiers or wife but no loss could ever compare to this. It’s his soul that is missing and all that is left is a hole in him that keeps growing bigger day by day. In some twisted way it’s almost amusing, how he never even realized that his heart had departed his body and taken its place within Hephaestion, but it _must_ have, because there is nothing in him anymore. It’s not alone and nor is the only other heart that Alexander would ever consider his own and that will be his only consolation. Hephaestion had been his to fight and his to love and if he doesn’t exist in this world anymore, it’s probable that neither does Alexander.

Alexander the Great still does though. His armour and sword exist and so does he. He commands his men like nothing has changed, except. There’s no fire in his eyes, the fire from heaven has burned out and there’s nothing left but the empty shades of brown and blue. His heart is still on fire, it is, but it’s flying far above all their heads, running free in the Elysian fields like it once did in the fields of Pella and in the grand deserts of Asia, and it’s not alone.

 

 

_iii._

Alexander the Great takes his cup of wine and tells them to leave him alone. He runs his fingers through his golden hair and isn’t he really the golden boy he always was. He thinks of the future, thinks of Arabia and his empire and how vast and beautiful it all is, still. It’s just that Alexander isn’t anymore and empire, the _Great_ empire, holds all the remnants of him. He takes one sip and the wine is all gone.

Alexander is already dead and Alexander the Great will never die, so it’s curious, this thing that still walks around barking at servants and riding horses.

 

 

_iv._

My Patroclus, he thinks as he watches the funeral pyre burn. It burns out and with it they’re gone, the raging flames that used to lick his eyes and set everyone around him on fire. I’ll be with you, he swears. I’ll be with you, my love, like I have always been.

They are all looking at him, looking at their unworthy god and not the pyre and he can only see him, his face glimmering everywhere, at the corners of his eyes. He stares at the dying flames, and that’s all that Alexander without the Greatness is now, dying. He has his foot lodged between the door of the house of death and he almost wishes to take the final step because all that matters is already inside.

”I know your heart, my great king, I can see the very bottom of your heart, and it has my name carved all over.” And then he had laughed a bit, sweetly, brown sugar on the tip of his tongue. Beautiful, eyes crinkling and lips curving upwards and Alexander hadn’t even known how right he was.

You’re my sun, Hephaestion, you’re the sun and all my stars and it’s your light that shines through me and amazes everybody. And without you there is nothing but darkness.

 

 

_v._

They’ve been waiting for it, when he falls ill. All the drinking, they say, all the unmixed wine and dinners where he doesn’t eat, only drinks.

His men are standing around his bed in a perfect half-circle, his wives are somewhere over there too, his _child_ is right there inside of Roxana, but he doesn’t see them. He can’t really hear their voices anymore and their faces are all but a blur now. It’s not that different from how it has been for months, but this time he is fading much faster than the world around him.

”Alexander”, they hum trying to get through to him and he can’t be bothered to answer, ”Alexander”, and it’s almost like a lullaby, like the ones his mother used to sing him when he was a child, her voice sharp and eyes even sharper. He shivers with cold, with doubt and with fear.

Alexander the Great will never die, not even when his empire falls or what is left of the man inside of him does.

He sees the eagle fly, sees the eyes of his mother, the sharp watery eyes, he sees his father and army and then all he sees is him. He reaches out to him with his shaking hand and it’s a plea. Take me this time, take all of me, the rest of me, _this disjoint piece of me_ and we can be whole again.

This is not how it ends, it’s not, but this is how he dies. This is how soul meets body again.


End file.
